Let No Man Put Asunder
by jolnnlock
Summary: Some nightmares you can't wake up from, no matter how many times you try. - Fusion with the Movie Edge of Tomorrow (2014)


**A/N:** This is a Fusion with the movie Edge of Tomorrow (2014).

John is caught in a time Loop and **John and Sherlock will both die (and come back to life) several times**. Please note this!

Also I love this movie, okay? Don't judge me ;)

* * *

><p>John is dying.<p>

He's on the ground, staring up at the clear blue sky above him. There's sand in his hair and he's pretty sure he's pissed himself; but when you're lying in a puddle of your own blood, you really don't seem to care anymore.

Instead, he thinks about all the men and women, he watched die today; and about how he'll be just one more name with the letters KIA printed beside it.

.

How had he ended up here? Alone on a beach in france, dying of a wound in his shoulder - another one - where some mimic had ripped open his armour suit and sent him flying across the ground.

John blinks against the veil of dust, that gets thrown up around him when people jog past.

He is not one of those lucky soldiers, who are dead before they even know what hit them.

No.

He seems destined to die in agony.

.

His friend Bill Murray was killed early on, before the fighting had even properly started, and John was only still alive, because he'd hit the ground in reflex when the nurse was caught.

And he'd counted himself- not lucky- certainly not lucky, but blessed; to at least get a chance to fight for his life.

Now- lying here, watching his blood soak into the sand- he wonders if Bill had suffered much. Because if John would have a say in it, he'd rather be shot dead straight away, than lay bleeding out. He's barely able to move and when he does at all, it comes with excruciating pain.

There are other soldiers around him he can't see, but hear firing ammo at the enemy and screaming for their lives, and it's then that he thinks, _please God, let me live._

_._

The sand under him shifts and John grunts in agony, when his heavy armour drags down his shoulders; effectively stretching his spine and pulling at the wound. He suppresses the wave of nausea and tries his best to breath through the worst pain, fighting against the dancing black dots luring him into oblivion.

He shivers and there is something else in the corner of his eye- the jerky movement of a non human being. He hisses horrified, as only a moment later a few mimics appear in his peripheral vision.

Never before had he seen one of them in this close proximity- they just moved too fast to see properly - and John really could have done without this knowledge.

.

John clenches his jaw. If he was to die anyway, he can at least try to take these monsters with him. One of the Mimics in the pack stood out from the others- alone his bigger size set it apart from the rest- and instead of the orange glow all of them seemed to possess, this one's was blueish.

Maybe John's just imagining things, but somehow he feels like he is meant to fight this particular alien. He tightens his grip on the controler and suppresses the upwelling sounds of distress in his throat.

He blinks away more of the darkness in front of his eyes, he won't have long now until he blacks out. And it's _now_ or _never_.

John lifts the arm carrying the machine gun with a guttural scream and fires on everything that is moving towards him. The aliens screech, deafening.

He passes out.

* * *

><p>John wakes up on his cot with a loud gasp, his hands running over his body, checking frantically for injuries. He sits up and kicks away the thin blanket.<p>

There's no trace of any fresh wound.

_Christ, what a dream._

The welded aluminium frame squeales, as Bill cranes his neck over the side of his bunk bed. "Nightmare?"

John can only nod in reply, his heart still racing. "Fine," he grunts eventually and lays back against his headboard. There are still a few soldiers giving him a curious glance over their card games and porn magazines, but he ignores them as good as he can.

"You sure you're okay, mate?"

John nods again and waves Bill off. He snatches his clothes and toiletries from his bag and stands up. "Don't you want to get combat ready?"

Bill looks at him, bewildered. "Why would I?"

"Because we suit up in a few hours?"

"What? How long d'you plan on wearing that thing?"

John blinks at his friend. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean, we roll out tomorrow."

.

.

.

John really doesn't know, what's happening anymore.

The day occurs exactly as it had done in his dream. Master Sergeant Ferrel had entered the dorm and ordered them to assemble for Practice Training at the No. 1 Training Field at oh-ninehundred, because someone had stolen some booze.

It had been Charlie and Bill, who had taken a few bottles the night before yesterday, to consume it with the rest of the platoon- yesterday evening.

And they _had_.

.

John remembers distinctly clear, drinking with the others and even helping Bill up onto his bunk afterwards.

All of which somehow never had happened.

Now he's standing in the canteen, where he was faced with the exact same food from the day before. He eats soup and chews potatoes without tasting them.

.

In the evening, he drinks with the others and helps Bill onto his bunk.

.

John dies on the beach the next morning, before the battle even starts - instead of Bill.

* * *

><p>John wakes up in his cot. He punches the pillow and stays in bed until Ferrel arrives and orders them to PT, because someone had stolen some bottles of booze.<p>

.

After Training he eats the same food a third time in a row and he wonders how it could have happened, that he found himself in a "Groundhog Day" setting. Living the same day over and over again.

He lets his eyes wander around the room, checking if there was anything different than the day before.

There is still Charlie flirting with Rachel, who is serving food. Brian and Marcus jokingly betting on who will come back alive tomorrow (John will see them both die at the beach in the morning). He's listening with one ear to Bill's plan for the night (it's still the same speech, he can easily guess the words before they leave his mouth).

John's gaze comes to rest on a dark haired man in the midst of the others, sitting alone on a table, poking at his food, but not eating: It's Sherlock Holmes.

.

Of course John knows him. After all, the man's face was staring down from every screen and various fronts of buildings- The Saviour of Verdun. He's a symbol to what we can achieve, if we're just keep fighting.

Though, whether the achievement is being a celebrated war hero, or one's face getting painted all over sides of busses is not distinctly clear yet.

.

In these pictures, the man himself is clad in one of the exo-fighting suit jackets. A gigantic blade thrown over his shoulder, his eyes a deadly glare, his face grim and stained with dirt and blood. TO VICTORY, these posters read, JOIN THE UDF.

The United Defense Force is still recruiting and even the men and women who would have been excluded before, were now good enough to die in this hopeless war against the aliens.

As was John. He had fought in a war before, though not against the Mimics. He'd been shot while he was trying to save one of his men and had nearly died because of it. And although the actual wound was in his shoulder, somehow his leg gave him even more hell whenever he tried to walk and needed to use a cane.

But the world was in need of more soldiers. His therapist said, the pain in his leg was all in his head and if he were to be shipped back into combat, he would be able to use it as before. Well, good news was, she was right. Bad news on the other hand meant, he had to go back and fight once more in a war.

At least during the time he was out, technology had invented something that could actually help with the fighting against the aliens: So called exo-suit jackets. Basically it's a weapon carrying system, which allows simple men and women to wield large-scale missiles and heavy-caliber weaponry with exceptional strength.

And with the usage of these suits, we could finally celebrate our first victory ever, in regaining Verdun. The man who had made this possible, with the killing of over one hundred Mimics, was now sitting only a few metres away from him in the canteen.

.

John had always doubted these commercial posters and the man in them, assumed Holmes to be a propaganda tool. He was simply too pretty to be a soldier; thin and pale, with dark curly hair and the piercing eyes; but perfect to be used for luring more people into enlisting.

Watching him in person wasn't helping to change John's mind about the great Saviour of Verdun. And John makes a mental note to keep an eye on him tomorrow, when they'll be fighting on the beach.

.

.

.

The weather is the same as it had been the last times and John had managed it for the first time to save both Bill and him from the nearing threat and Bill can only stare at him in wonder.

"Okay Bill, listen. I need to find someone. Do you have my back for a bit?"

Bill nods at him and John gives him pat on the shoulder in return.

.

It takes him ten minutes to find Sherlock among the other soldiers and now John can see that the dark blue stripe on his chest is actually part of his armour and not just a thing for the commercial posters.

He kills two mimics in quick succession and John watches as Holmes swings his blade against a third alien. He ducks and stabs and whirls around his blade with a surprisingly high amount of grace, which makes it look almost like a kind of dance. And John couldn't take his eyes off him.

Sherlock Holmes was anything but a fluke.

.

John is once again send flying across the ground by the force of a mimics stroke he didn't see coming and lands on the sand with a force, that knocks the air out of his lungs. He closes his eyes and waits for the Alien to finish what he'd started and to wake up again.

But instead the Mimic screeches and a part of its carapace lands next to him on the ground.

John opens his eyes and turns his head as far as he can, to see Holmes standing with his hands clasped around the hilt of his sword, panting for air. John holds his breath when their eyes meet and the sun brings the paint on his chest to glow in a dark purple light.

A moment of total stillness passes between them, when suddenly the sand under John shifts and he's only time to exclaim a "NO!", before Sherlock is stabbed with one of the mimic's limbs. John watches horrified as the man is carelessly dropped to the floor, motionless.

Seized by a crushing amount of anger, John fires at the mimics with his machine gun and when they move away too quickly, he tries a grenade instead.

He dies when it explodes.

* * *

><p>John wakes up in his bed. He decides that Sherlock Holmes will not die as long as John Watson was there to save him. Because Sherlock Holmes will lead the world into victory, that John is sure of.<p>

.

"Bill," John starts, interrupting the speech he'd heard several times before already, "have you ever talked to Holmes before?"

"How could I?" Bill says with a snort, "he doesn't talk to mere mortals. Ever. Everyone knows that. I don't think I have ever even heard his voice, when I think about it."

"He must talk to someone," John insists, "I mean there are literally dozens of people walking with him into battle and care for him. He must have friends, mustn't he?"

"Why must they care for him? And why do they have to be his friends? He is a war hero! There will always be someone around to carry his things for him! I mean look at him! He doesn't look like someone who thinks about stuff he might need while fighting!"

John doesn't say anything and instead glances at the man again. He was as always poking at his food, but never eating it. John had wondered about that.

It's in that moment that Holmes looks up and catches John staring at him. He looks away immediately with a curse, but it was already too late.

Sherlock stands and comes walking towards them, and John wants to disappear into thin air.

.

The man moves with purpose, like a tiger stalking its prey. He stops in front of their table, his piercing eyes burning through John.

"Do I have something on my face?" The growl in his voice makes him even sound like a tiger. Who would have suspected him to sound like that?

"Sorry?" John offers, helplessly.

"You've been staring at me since you've entered the canteen, twenty minutes ago." Holmes declares and John swallows nervously.

"Me? No."

"I thought maybe someone was aiming a laser bead at my forehead."

.

Bill stares at John from across the table and mouths something that suspiciously looks like_ WTF are you doing?_ and John doesn't know himself.

"I'm- Uh- there's nothing. I'm- sorry." And God, he can feel himself blush.

The man lifts his chin and looks down his nose at John. He seems to consider saying something, but instead he gives a brief nod and turns on his heels.

He has barely moved three steps away, when Bill turns to John. "Fuck mate, are you nuts? You can't stare at _him_ like that. Christ."

"Well I didn't mean to!" John huffs and he certainly won't do _that_ again.

.

.

.

On the beach in the morning John is murdered before he even gets to the place he met Holmes yesterday. Maybe he should look into some training as well.

* * *

><p>John spends the next few loops with training his aim and memorising where the Mimics will appear. He also started to write the number of days on the back of his hand to keep track.<p>

It's like an anchor to his new reality.

* * *

><p>It's the 30th loop, and already the 7th time, John lies bleeding out from some wound in his torso. He has given up trying to fight and just waits for death to pull him in and wake up again.<p>

He coughs and suddenly he hears the grind of footsteps, feels the ground vibrating, sand shifting under him and is sure to find either a Mimic or someone in an exo-suit coming towards him.

He can't turn his head around properly, can't see and just has to wait until the sound is near enough.

Until he can finally look up into the face of Sherlock Holmes. It's him in his full glory, the blue stripe on his chest like a painted scarf and John knows, if the sun shines just so it will glow purple.

Since that day in the canteen, he hadn't dared to talk to him and was therefore rather surprised, when the man opens his mouth to talk to him.

.

"You're dying," he tells John and it takes a moment for the words to sink in.

When they do, John exhales what could almost have been a laugh. "_Oh, God!_" He intones and watches Holmes frown at him. "How long do I have, doctor?"

The man looks confused. There's dirt on his face and his usually dark curls are pressed against his forehead, damp from sweat.

The frown deepens impossibly more, "You're not afraid of dying, are you?"

John coughs and he's not able to answer him anymore, because somehow his tongue is not cooperating, so instead he just stares at him.

"No," Holmes says and somehow makes it sound amused. He gets down on his knees next to John in the sand and John has to wonder if the man really is as intelligent as they say.

Because who gets down next to a dying soldier, while there are real people, people with a chance of coming home alive, are fighting around him? The air filled with the sounds of explosions, the screeching of aliens and the screams of their victim's?

.

"Is it easier to fight against the mimics as to kill other people?" Holmes asks, curious and John really has to think about it. He was a doctor before, he shouldn't be killing people, he should save them. John grunts when he leans his head back to get a better look at the man and blood fills his mouth. He feels it run warm down his cheek.

"I'm sorry" Holmes says, "but I will need your batteries."

John blinks and tries to communicate his consent - not that he will need them any longer. Only a couple of minutes now.

He closes his eyes briefly. Maybe he won't even have a full minute.

He opens his eyes again and looks into pale ones, tries to say something; not sure what he wants to say, just something. He listens to the words that come to his mind, _take care_ and _good luck_ and _walk away_ and _don't go_ and _please stay_.

He doesn't say any of them and the man- Sherlock - stays until John draws his last breath.

* * *

><p>John wakes up in his cot. He sighs, gets up to grab a pencil and writes the number 31 on the back of his hand. <em>Damn it.<em>

_._

_._

_._

Today, when he sees Sherlock sitting alone in the canteen, he takes his tablet and walks over; ignoring the questioning stares from Bill and the others and sits down opposite Sherlock.

"You know," John says without preamble, "I thought about your question from yesterday and I think, it really_ is_ easier to kill the Mimics than other people. Because they don't have anything human on them." He takes the salt and pepper shaker and starts seasoning his food with careless movements. If one were to eat the same thing for thirty days in a row, one would do anything to make it taste different.

Sherlock stares at him as if he had lost his mind for a second. "Who are you?" He asks, skipping over his stature, until his eyes come to rest on his hands briefly.

"I'm John." he says with a smile

Sherlock must have seen the exhaustion on John's features, because he tilts his head. "Yesterday," he says and it actually sounds intrigued. "What do you mean yesterday? I wasn't even here yesterday and I'm sure I haven't met you before."

John laughs. He can't help it, he just finds it incredibly funny and hasn't had a good laugh in _weeks_.

Sherlock's frown deepens and John shakes his head. He taps with his fork against Sherlock's tablet. "Go on, eat. I haven't seen you eat anything and you will need your strength tomorrow."

Sherlock watches silently as John picks up his fork and chews the first piece of potato, almost gagging from the amount of spice. "Why are you doing this?"

.

John coughs and swallows, before he takes another bite. He shrugs, "It's nice to feel alive from time to time."

Sherlock keeps his mouth shut for a while, then asks "Why is there the number 31 written on your hand?"

John turns his hand to look at the number. "I'll tell you if you eat something," John decides with a nod and takes a sip of his water.

Sherlock considers him for a few moments more, then picks up his fork and eats one of his potatoes.

John hides a grin behind his hand and they finish their meal in silence.

.


End file.
